Summer of 1970

There was a pause. Fergus became aware that Rory had stood up and was now directly behind him. Fergus was shaking like a leaf. What's he going to do now? he wondered.

What Rory did next was to stroke the insides of Fergus's legs gently and expertly with the chilly barrel of his revolver, quietly chuckling. Suddenly he moved the gun upwards, so that the cold steel was rubbing against Fergus's testicles,then drew it back and upwards towards himself so that it slid between Fergus's ass-cheeks and rubbed against his man-hole; the most private and sensitive part of Fergus's anatomy. This had a startling effect.  Fergus still suspected that Rory might be a homicidal maniac, rather than just a man with a  mischievous or perverse sense of humor; he was seriously alarmed. He  remembered the words of a ribald rugby song:

'I don't want a bullet up my asshole, I don't want my bollocks shot away...'

Maybe Rory knew the same song and was about to do one or both to Fergus? With desperate courage Fergus turned suddenly and aimed a punch at Rory's head. It nearly reached its mark, but Rory was too quick for him. Dropping the handgun, he grabbed Fergus's wrist and stopped the punch; then he did the same for his left hand as Fergus tried a second punch. What might have developed into a boxing match turned into wrestling instead. Fergus put up a good fight, but Rory forced him down to his knees, his face level with Rory's groin. He looked desperately up at Rory, who was grinning.

“What are you going to do to me now?” Fergus faltered. Tears were trembling on his dark eyelashes.

“Have a chat with you; I think we need to!” smiled Rory. “Come along to my room. It's just down here. I'll pour you a stiff drink; you look as if you needed one. I apologize; my practical jokes sometimes go too far. I wasn't really annoyed and I certainly wasn't going to do anything bad to you.”

“It didn't sound like it,” said Fergus doubtfully. But he'd stopped trembling.  

Rory raised Fergus to his feet. He hugged him roughly and warmly.  

“Look, you chump: I wasn't going to damage anyone as beautiful as you!”

Rory scooped up Fergus and slung him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift.  A big, strong man, he now jogged off downstairs and down the corridor carrying Fergus, who was now thoroughly confused. Entering his Gothic bedroom, Rory set Fergus down on the bed, where he sat watching Rory, who discarded his leather jacket; now fully naked, he turned to what appeared to be an antique Korean cabinet but was in reality a bar, and poured two small glasses of whisky, which he diluted with water from a decanter.

Fergus was sitting on the bed with his long, shapely legs stretched out in front of him, slightly bent. Rory sat down facing him and twined his longer legs round Fergus, one above and one below Fergus's legs. He handed him a glass; they linked arms as they made a silent toast.

'Knock it back in one!” said Rory.

Fergus did so. Rory took their glasses and set them on the bedside table. His breath sweet with the tang of the whisky, Rory took Fergus's head between his hands. Looking into his eyes, he said:

“I'm nuts about you. I have been ever since I saw you shoot your sperm by the Kelpie's Pool. I want to be your lover.”

Fergus was so shocked that he laughed. “Don't talk rot, Rory! You're taking the mickey!”

“Never more serious in my life,” replied Rory, more softly than his usual brash tones. “I'm a hundred percent serious.”  His gold-flecked green eyes were hypnotic.

To show how serious he was, he kissed Fergus expertly and tenderly, on the lips. Their tongues met and entwined; Fergus relaxed and was conquered. Their kiss seemed to last a lifetime. During it, their hands moved freely over each other's body and their cocks started to stir. Rory grabbed Fergus's and started to tease it.

“This is all wrong; it's a mistake...” muttered Fergus doubtfully.  

“Does this feel wrong or bad?”

“Actually, no; it doesn't,” said Fergus after a moment's hesitation, “Not bad at all -ouch!”

“Well, that means it's good. You should learn to trust your instincts!” was Rory's amused response.

Nevertheless Rory started to look serious as he concentrated on arousing Fergus. He seemed tireless and to have limitless imagination, veering wildly between tenderness and ferocity. Never for a moment did he stop touching Fergus. Having commanded him to suck his cock, which was large, firm and rosy, he roughly prized open Fergus's man-hole, probed him with his fingers, stretched the muscles and rimmed him. While this was happening Fergus was giving little gasps and yelps of fright and delight. Next thing was to take him from behind. Rory applied some KY. Fergus struggled a bit, but Rory was firm with him and drove in. It hurt like...well, like fuck, Fergus thought afterwards. Rory suddenly pulled Fergus upright, grabbed him savagely by the right breast – his arm thrust under Fergus's left armpit – and with his left hand he grasped Fergus's throat. He forced his way in and took him again, deeply. Then he made Fergus bend over, twisting his hands behind him and holding them in the small of his back. Again he fucked him. Fergus was yelling loudly but – Rory noticed - did not beg him to stop. (Not that it would have made any difference if he had.)  

Now Fergus was on the floor, propped against the bed and upside-down; head and shoulders on the carpet, aching ass in the air. Rory was partly on the bed and partly looming over Fergus, his hands on the ground; armed extended; his eyes staring into Fergus's, as he plunged deep inside Fergus and began to thrust. Now and again he would close his eyes but most of the time they were in close eye-contact. Although his ass was sore, Fergus was coming close to shooting his load. He reached up to jack himself off. Rory firmly moved his hand away. Meanwhile precum began to drizzle from Fergus's cock, which was now several times its usual size and an angry red. 

Finally, Rory's surprise move. He shifted Fergus so that he lay flat on the floor, sucked his cock for a moment, smeared some gel on it and then mounted Fergus, taking the young man's cock deep inside himself. Rory's ride, while it did not last for many minutes, was epic in its way, with Rory jacking himself off to splatter Fergus generously, while Fergus, almost screaming, shot his load deep into Rory's guts. Rory, still impaled, leaned forward and kissed Fergus, who hugged him. They were both shining and slippery with sweat. Rory extricated himself and they lay side by side, gasping for air. Then Rory reached out for Fergus's hand and squeezed it.

“You did pretty well; you've passed the test!”

“You sound like a DVSA driving test examiner!”

Fergus remained at Castle Roy for several days. There was no-one at his cottage to be concerned at his non-appearance. A change of clothes was hardly necessary as the weather was fine and inside Castle Roy's grounds, with their nine miles of high wall and dense woodland, they went naked for days at a time. Fergus's skin became golden-brown all over.  If they ventured out on expeditions in the area, which was thinly inhabited, they wore kilts, boots, socks and puttees; sometimes hats and very rarely shirts. If no-one was around and they were within sight of Castle Roy, they would strip completely, pack the kilts in their knapsacks and race the last few hundred yards. A midnight naked swim in the Kelpie's Pool was an almost nightly fixture.

Only one thing worried Fergus: what to do when the Paxton brothers arrived? The nicest of men, they might be less than understanding about Fergus's first love affair, with another man.

It was Rory himself who provided the way out. One day he remarked: “I'm going away for a bit; in fact, I shan't be back for quite a long time.”

Fergus felt both dismayed and relieved. No explanations to the Paxtons would now be necessary, but the loss of Rory would be like an amputation.

“Where are you going?”

“Biggin Hill, first of all. “I want to be a pilot and joining the RAF as aircrew is a good way to get the training. So I'm going there for selection and exams. If I'm successful, I'll be very happy and may persuade my mother or my trustees to pay for a few flying lessons to get me off to a good start. I'm not sure when I'll be back. So, let's make tonight a night to remember!”

They did. In the event Fergus did not see Rory again; at least, not that year.

A few days after Rory's departure the Paxtons arrived. They commented on how well he was looking, although they also noticed that he had become less communicative and more thoughtful.

He's finally started to grow up, they thought. He's becoming a different sort of person.

Although Fergus never let on, they also intuited that Fergus might have had a love affair. However they looked in vain for the young woman; no mail on scented paper arrived, nor did they ever see Fergus talking animatedly to any local girl in the village. Now and again they would all swim in the Kelpie's Pool, but by day; on these occasions they wore trunks.  

In the first week of October Fergus started at Durham University. He found himself involved in endless events during 'Freshers' Week'. At a disco and buffet organized by the Dramatic Society, Fergus found himself alone at a table looking at animated silhouettes bopping and gyrating on the dance floor. He lit a cigarette, a habit that he had acquired from Rory. Through the smoke he watched a slim, fair-haired young man, who obviously knew no-one, approaching uncertainly.

He's bloody nice-looking. Maybe he'd be up for some fun....?

Fergus was, for a nanosecond, shocked by his own train of thought; it was almost as though it were Rory thinking, not him. It certainly was not a usual Fergus-thought. But anyway!

“Hi, have a drink with me!” said a newly-confident Fergus. “What's your tipple?”

The lad smiled with relief. “A lager, please!”

Fergus grinned a large, friendly grin and went to the bar for two lagers.

The night is young and the game's afoot; anything could happen!